


(tw: death, non-con)

by saturno



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gore, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual, Porn, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturno/pseuds/saturno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: Hannibal/Will: Will crying during sex and Hannibal licking up his tears</p>
            </blockquote>





	(tw: death, non-con)

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on 6/24/13 at [the hannibal kink meme](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2246.html?thread=3711430#cmt3711430). this is sort of an alternate take on the end of season 1.

As a boy, he used to practice faces.  
Expressions didn't come naturally. The broad smiles that swept over others' faces when good fortune befell them. The many multifaceted faces of anger, sadness. Despair. Regret. Pain. A complicated, layered web of experience that he was not privy to, and all its countless faces that accompanied each and every one.  
Through careful observation of those around him, slowly, gradually, it was revealed what was appropriate and when. It was a riddle to be solved where everything had its proper place, like a puzzle. Like the delicate inner workings of an animal. Like the small cogs and gears interlocking and shifting, clicking, tick, tick, in his watch.  
Everything had a proper place. Situations all had a correct emotional reaction. It wasn't hard to learn, but perfecting was an entirely different task altogether, one that required rote memorization, and repetition, and repetition, and. And.  
Everything had to be just so. Subtlety was the key.  
In the mirror as a boy, he would stare into his own face and practice. Smiles. Sadness. Tears.  
Hurt.  
Face contorting, twisting, matching and imitating closely. Perfectly. Effortlessly.  
Give the right reaction, and people reacted in the right way. The desired way.  
It was very easy.

-

Will is crumpled in on himself. A single gunshot to the belly in the middle of Hobbs' kitchen in the middle of nowhere. It was easy to lunge and reach in past him and break his fingers backwards and off the weapon. It was easy to force the barrel around into and towards Will's own body in the ensuing struggle, despite the grunting, gritted force of Will trying with all remaining strength to shove it back, despite Will's flailing, slamming, desperate fighting. A single shot and the sound of the air being forced out of Will's lungs all at once in one tremendous sledgehammer punch to the gut.

Dr. Lecter stands in silence and watches the man trembling on the ground, watches Will's blood exit the hole his belly in rhythmic spurts in time with his heart, spilling between his shaking hands and over the floor, and thinks, privately, about how sweaty Will's hands were. It was why it was so easy to take the gun out of his control. He can feel the moisture on his own palms now, cool to the touch, sticky. Wet.  
Almost absentmindedly, he brings his fingers up to his mouth and runs his tongue over the sweat. The encephalitis is palpable, thick, sharp. Will is moaning in a warbling, high-pitched whine from the floor, trying to move his limbs clumsily like a newborn lamb, smearing red tissue even further over the floor as he tries to get his arms and legs under himself. He strains audibly to get up and nothing comes of it.

"That will only make it worse," Hannibal says flatly, and Will tries to stare up at him but is lost, his eyes rolling as the color drains slowly from his face and out onto the ground in an expanding sloppy circle. It's a fast drain. Hannibal wonders if he shot through the abdominal aorta with the same sort of intensity as one would wonder about what sort of socks to wear.

"Ghllhgh," says Will, saliva frothing at his lips as he struggles to cling to consciousness through the pain and haze, through the swelling of fever. He is Garret Jacob Hobbs staring at the empty doorway where Hannbal is waiting just beyond. He is his own corpse staring into the face and the cold, dead eyes of the wendigo.  
"Ghghkk."  
With every sound, small droplets of sweat and saliva and blood spray forth, misting sloppily in the space just in front of his mouth.  
"Hghkk."

"Shhh shh shh shh shh," Dr. Lecter hushes, his face twisted into a calm, flat evenness - the same face he uses during his sessions - and slowly drops to one knee by Will's side, his leg just barely outside the lake of blood on the floor. Will tastes bile rising in the back of his throat as Hannibal closes in and hears the sound of whining, whimpering, like a dying animal. It's himself. It's Garret Jacob Hobbs. It's himself.  
"You don't want to make this worse for yourself," Hannibal murmurs in a voice that is supposed to be soothing, an exact, perfect imitation of the tones and sounds Will is so used to inside the man's office. His fingertips are on the side of Will's face, touching the sweat-drenched flesh softly, tracing over the froth in the corners of his mouth, smearing the sticky wetness between his fingers as he raises them to his mouth for the second time. He stares into Will's eyes - eyes that are trying so hard to stay locked and focused - as they slowly flood with tears that eventually spill down his clammy face. Oozing. He is whimpering. He is whining like a dog.  
Hannibal wonders what he sees in this moment, having lost this much blood, for a few moments before he chooses to acknowledge the presence of the dying man's erect penis pressed against the fabric of his jeans. Priapism caused by the damage to his abdominal aorta. "Death erection." He wonders if Will has any awareness of it.

'No' is the answer as he stares into Will's face with all the emotion and expression of a lizard and presses straight down on it with the heel of his hand.  
The strangled sound. It isn't 'fear.' Something else.

Hannibal presses down harder and watches Will and the barrage of strange faces that pour forth. The sounds. The smell. Will is crying, possibly without realizing he is doing it, and Hannibal is leaning closer, scrutinizing every inch of the flesh of his face as it twists in wet, fading, weakening agony. Wanting to observe every moment of experience.

This is 'shame.'  
This is 'humiliation.'

Will's dick is in his hand directly. He squeezes as he masturbates him, staring still and calm into Will's face, absorbing the emanating agony and its faces and sounds like a sponge. He leans in closer and his tongue slides up Will's face towards his eye, tasting the salt of sweat and tears, tasting the panic, the agony, the degradation. The sickness. He wonders how much of the experience Will is understanding at this moment. His lips are on the edges of Will's eyelids, the man's tears spilling into his mouth directly, over his tongue, coating his mouth in that panic, that shame. Taking it in as a part of himself. Will's dick is spitting precome stupidly into his hand as he works, the sounds of his strokes growing wetter, louder. It seemed as unaware of things as the rest of Will.

He waits until Will is dead before he stops his ministrations.

Days later, after some cleanup of the crime scene to make things look a little more presentable and even, after the explanation to Jack how Will had...  
tried to...

 

and he just simply had to take him down,

he finds himself in front of his mirror, as he used to do when he was a boy, and he is able to imitate the face that Will had made in those final moments reasonably well.  
Very well.

It was very easy.


End file.
